Letters to the Dead
by Le Feuilly
Summary: When nothing can help John recover from Sherlock's suicide, letters maybe the only thing that can help him.


**A/N I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters or places in this story. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC do**

**Anyway, enjoy! :)**

* * *

Rain poured out of the dark, gloomy sky as thunder rang in the air. Even though 221B stayed dry on the inside, tears fell onto a sheet of paper John Watson was holding as he grieved the death of his closest friend and flat mate, Sherlock Holmes. Even though the dramatic fall off of St Bart's Hospital had occurred three years ago, the pain in John's heart still existed, even after the countless times he tried to extinguish the fire.

John's therapist had suggested to move away from 221B and Baker Street permanently so he could try to forget about everything that had happened on that day. But every time John had started to pack his belongings, he would break down into tears. It was just impossible to move away from a place where memories were created . . . and read.

Even though everyone had tried to make his life feel less gloomy, nothing seemed to make John less depressed. And it was a near impossible task until one day, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, had come up to 221B with piping hot bowl of Chicken Soup on a tray.

"Listen Johnny boy," she had said. "Please don't cry for poor old Mrs. Hudson, will you? Everything will be okay."

"No, it won't be!" John had yelled. He looked at Mrs. Hudson, who had tears in her eyes. John's expression softened. "Look, I'm sorry. But nobody can replace Sherlock Holmes. Not even Mycroft."

"I know dear. That's why I brought this with the Chicken Soup," she passed an envelope, a piece of paper and a pencil to him. "Write a letter to Sherlock. He'll appreciate it if you did. I'm certain of it."

"He doesn't appreciate anything, even if he's dead." John sighed.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head with disappointment. "Just try, Johnny boy. I don't want you to cry anymore." She ruffled John's hair before returning back to her flat.

John was left staring at the paper, unsure whether or not to follow Mrs. Hudson's advice or shred the paper into pieces, similar to what he did to his life.

**. . .**

It had been five days since Mrs. Hudson had come to 221B with the bowl of soup and paper and John still hadn't written anything onto it. Even after he tried and tried and tried over and over again.

John was about to change that.

He gripped the pencil in his hand, determined that he would at least write a sentence for Sherlock, his dead friend. After five minutes of struggling with his hand, the pencil finally touched the paper and he began to write.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I know it's been three long years since I last saw you but I want you to know that somehow, you're still alive, shooting the smiley face on the wall, annoying me with your comments on how mankind is stupid and how you still put body parts into the microwave._

_But I want you to know, you selfish bastard, that you're still my friend and that I miss you, even after the countless times you pissed me off._

_If you're reading this in heaven or some random place in the sky, floating around and turning luminous like a fairy, I want you to come home. You're the one that's causing my grief after all._

_Even though I know it's impossible, I wish that I could hear you yelling at crap TV, or maybe not make me bored._

_Either way, I wish you could reply, though I know you can't._

_Don't be dead,_

_John H. Watson, your best (and only) friend._

John could feel tears trickle down his cheeks and fall onto the paper. He wiped them away, knowing that if he cried, it wouldn't help. He then folded the paper so it fit into the envelope, making sure that it didn't look like an electric or water bill, as Sherlock despised them.

John then donned his rain gear and headed outside to the cemetery.

**. . .**

"John! Come here quickly! There's a letter for you!" Mrs. Hudson shouted.

"I'm coming Mrs. Hudson!" John replied. He walked towards the old woman, annoyed that another bill had come.

Mrs. Hudson smirked. "All I know is that this isn't a bill."

She passed the envelope to a surprised John. He held it with trembling fingers as her read the front. It simply addressed it to Dr. John H. Watson in a neat cursive.

Sherlock's cursive.

John opened the letter with his trembling hands to reveal only two sentences of writing.

_Did you just call me a selfish bastard? How dare you call the clever detective in the funny hat that! Shame on you, John Watson!_

That was the only evidence John needed to state that Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat, was alive.


End file.
